


Consequences

by RumblingJazz (neoculture_dorkology)



Series: A Tyrant's Treasure [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mech Preg, Or is there?, Poor poor Bluestreak, Prowl is going to kill Megatron, we will see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-19 13:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14238135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoculture_dorkology/pseuds/RumblingJazz
Summary: The datapad in Prowl's hands shattered. "Bluestreak could be carrying that monster's offspring?"





	1. Bad News

Prowl paced outside the medbay, his doorwings shivering in both anger and fear. Anger, at Megatron - fear, for Bluestreak. 

The Autobots had found Bluestreak deep, deep in a tunnel system. He had been cleaned and arranged neatly, almost _comfortably_ , on the floor when they found him, but the paint transfers and scrapes on his form gave no illusions as to what had transpired between the sniper and the tyrant. His panels may have been closed, but Ratchet had taken one look at Bluestreak and met Prowl's optics with an expression that told the tactician all he needed to know. 

Ratchet had kicked Prowl out of medbay for doing too much hovering, and making a general nuisance of himself. It was certainly out of character for the tactician, but worry for someone he had taken in as his own creation came before logic, apparently. There were times when Prowl didn't understand his own processor, no matter how deep he dug. 

"Prowler?" 

So engrossed in his thoughts, the Praxian hadn't noticed Jazz's approach. His doorwings shot up in surprise, optics wide as he stared at the Polyhexian. 

"You've returned from your mission," Prowl noted, as though this were something that needed commenting on. 

"An' Ah hate ta be th' bearer o' nothin' but bad news," the Polyhexian sighed, "but Ah ain't got anythin' good t' tell ya an' Prime." 

Prowl could feel his energon turning to ice in his lines. "I... also have bad news, Jazz." 

"Ah c'n tell. Ya wouldn't be pacin' around in fronta medbay if ya didn't," Jazz stated perceptively. "Ah'm gonna take th' liberty o' guessin' it's baby Blue in there, an' Ah'm gonna guess it's.... bad." 

Prowl's doorwings drooped. "Megatron got him. Megatron..." 

"Ah know, Prowler, that's parta th' bad news Ah have." Jazz stepped forward, and pulled Prowl into an embrace the tactician hadn't known he'd needed. "Blue's gonna pull through. He's strong, like you are." 

"Why Bluestreak? There were others. Hound said Megatron singled him out. I would like to know why," the tactician mumbled into the saboteur's shoulder. Jazz hummed, merely allowing the tactician to spill the thoughts that had been running through his processor. "At first, I considered that Bluestreak may have seemed like a weaker target, but there were smaller and weaker Autobots on the field. I can make no sense of it." 

Jazz silently stroked Prowl's back, offering no opinions. 

Before Prowl could say more, the medbay door swung open. "Prowl? Ratchet would like to speak with you in his office. Er, Jazz is welcome, too." 

The tactician pulled away from Jazz's comforting embrace. "Thank you, First Aid." 

The second and third-in-command followed the Protectobot into the medbay, and then entered Ratchet's office. Bluestreak was nowhere to be seen, which did not help the unease building in Prowl's systems. 

"Prowl, Jazz, please sit." Ratchet looked tired, rubbing his optics. "I'm afraid I have good news, and bad." 

As they sat, Prowl ex-vented. "Please, continue, Ratchet." 

"As far as good news goes, Bluestreak hasn't been physically injured. It would appear that Megatron... was careful with him." The medic looked uncomfortable. "I can't find a good way to word any of this, Prowl, so I hope you forgive me if I say something that may seem out of line." 

"Of course." the tactician's left doorwing flicked. 

"It seems that Megatron attempted not to damage him when he... interfaced with him," the medic went on. "The scratches and nicks in parts of his plating were caused by battle and an apparent fight before... connection. Those were easily repaired." 

"An' th' bad news?" 

"Aside from the fact that Bluestreak was raped, there's more bad news. His gestation chamber is currently active, and at this stage, I can't tell whether or not there's a sparkling in there or not." Ratchet's lips pressed into a firm line. "I'd like to keep him under close observation for an Earth week or so, just to ensure there's no little one in him. If there is, I want to abort it as soon as possible, with Bluestreak's permission, so that it doesn't reach life-threatening stages before we get rid of it." 

The datapad in Prowl's hands shattered. "Bluestreak could be _carrying_ that monster's _offspring_?" 

"It's a high possibility," Ratchet confirmed. "I'd like to say that he isn't, that there's no way he could, but he may very well be. As I said before, I'd like to keep Bluestreak under observation until I can be sure."

"Do so." Prowl's words were ice. "I have battles to plan." 


	2. Bluestreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak wakes.

Bluestreak woke alone. 

For a moment, he panicked - he didn't know where he was, didn't know where Megatron was. He didn't know if he was somewhere safe, or somewhere... _not_ safe. 

_"My little treasure." Megatron's purr in his audials were answered by soft gasping moans as Bluestreak squirmed, two of the tyrant's large fingers pressing deep in his valve. His fans were working overtime, trying to cool down his frame but Megatron was making him run **so hot** and he knew it was so wrong but he pressed his hips onto the fingers anyway--_

Then he realized that he was looking at a familiar orange wall, laying on his side in the medbay of the Ark. Bluestreak ex-vented, the tiniest bit of relief flooding through his systems. He was safe, he was...

 _Oh, frag._ Bluestreak whimpered softly. If he was here, in the medbay, then at least four Autobots knew he interfaced with Megatron. And whether it was willing and consensual or not, there were going to be questions. Such as, why hadn't Megatron roughed him up more? Why were his fuel and coolant in healthy levels? What was Megatron's motive? 

_"Gorgeous," Megatron murmured, thumb caressing Bluestreak's hip. "You have many desirable qualities, Bluestreak. I am certain any sparklings you may bear would have them as well."_

_"I won't."_

_Megatron pulled the sniper closer, shifting their position so that they lay on their sides, the warlord holding the Praxian uncomfortably close. "At this time, perhaps not. But eventually..." Fingers slick with Bluestreak's oral fluids traced over the Autobot's thigh. "Eventually, you will. They will be beautiful, like you."_

Bluestreak nibbled his lower lip. Perhaps Megatron had merely intended to spark Bluestreak - the tyrant would want an heir. The question was, why Bluestreak? Why did Megatron consider him a treasure? There were prettier Autobots, ones who were also probably more compatible with the tyrant. 

Had Megatron chosen him because he thought of Bluestreak as weak? Was it really just a thought? Bluestreak had caved in to the warlord's desires too swiftly, too easily. 

Bluestreak felt sick. 

_Megatron's hands were hot, dragging Bluestreak closer and pinning him down. The world felt like it was spinning around him. Bluestreak had never come down from an overload like this one..._

* * *

The medbay door opening startled the sniper out of fitful recharge. When had he offlined? 

"Bluestreak," Prowl murmured. Flanked by Ratchet and Jazz, he made his way through the medbay and stopped beside the younger Praxian. 

"Prowl," Bluestreak choked as he sat up.

_"Prowl isn't going to save you," Megatron hissed in his audial. Bluestreak was still reeling from being snatched off of the battlefield._

_"Your creator's? Prowl isn't your real sire."_

Bluestreak's vision blurred, fat tears building in his optics. "Prowl," he choked out again, reaching for his surrogate creator. Warm arms bundled him close, the stoic tactician allowing him to sob it out into his shoulder as his comforting field wrapped around Bluestreak. 

"I'll disassemble him," Prowl whispered, rocking Bluestreak back and forth. "Shhhh. I've got you. You're safe."

 _Safe._ Was he really? 

Could he ever be safe, now that a tyrant considered Bluestreak his treasure? 

"He what?"

Bluestreak flinched at Prowl's sharp tone. Had he said that out loud? 

"He _considers you his treasure_?" Prowl pressed, voice considerably softer. He stroked the back of Bluestreak's helm, his fingertips gentle and soothing. 

Bluestreak choked back a sob, and tried to figure out how to explain. "He said it several times -- little treasure, my treasure, sweet treasure, darling treasure... Told me I was his treasure... His beautiful treasure." 

Prowl's growl was a low rumble, making Bluestreak flinch. It was followed by a murmured apology and more soft helm-stroking, but Bluestreak could feel the anger in Prowl's field. 

He didn't pity Megatron. 


End file.
